


this is why (we can't have nice things)

by ThisUsernameTaken



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Attempt at Humor, BAMF Avengers, BAMF Pepper Potts, BAMF Tony Stark, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, I'm Bad At Titles, Magic, Plushies, Stuffed Toys, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, Tony Being Tony, Tony Stark Does What He Wants, Tony Stark Hates Magic, Transformation, the fact that is a tag is amazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 17:23:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15868251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisUsernameTaken/pseuds/ThisUsernameTaken
Summary: Cap pried off his faceplate and found- nothing.When JARVIS had come back online, temporarily disabled by the hit (and whatwasthat), the suit opened like a shell, a tidily wrapped present.And inside, sitting pretty, was an Iron Man plush.An Iron Man plush, and nothing (no-one) else.What the fuck?Or: Tony takes a hit not meant for him, and is transformed into, of all things, an Iron Man plush.This day sucks.





	this is why (we can't have nice things)

Tony remembered the battle in snapshots.

 

Cap. Slinging his shield, barking orders. Hadn’t even been sweating, damn him.

 

Natashalie, dropping the enemy like flies and fighting off any that got too close. Barton, balanced precariously on a crumbling ledge, picking them off from above. Idiot.

 

Thor was actually there, for once, swings that had opponents sailing for blocks.

 

And Iron Man. Flashy, self sacrificing. _Stupid._ Or as Cap had yelled at him through the comms when he stepped in front of Thor as some semblance of a shield.

 

 _Stupid._ Why had he tried to protect a fucking _god?_ Outside of Hulk, who had not been needed, he could withstand the most. Idiot. Not Barton level idiot, whom Cap had to catch when where he was standing gave way, but getting there.

 

Thor hauled the smoking armor into a protected area in the rubble, and flew off to rejoin the fray.

 

When all had been said (shot) and done, the team clustered around his prone form, Cap prying off his faceplate. (He’d have to weld on another, had no one caught his drift about the manual releases?)

 

Cap pried off his faceplate and found- nothing.

 

When JARVIS had come back online, temporarily disabled by the hit (and what _was_ that), the suit opened like a shell, a tidily wrapped present.

 

And inside, sitting pretty, was an Iron Man plush.

 

An Iron Man plush, and nothing (no-one) else.

 

What the fuck?

 

* * *

 

 

Later, as the team fired off reports and were verbally reamed by Fury, as Pepper held him in her hands and turned him over, inspecting the Made in China tag, as everyone passed him from hand to hand in wonderment and worry, Tony screamed.

 

Or as much as polyster and plastic pellets could scream. Whatthefuckwhatthefuck.

 

After everyone had poked and prodded at him, discussing his disappearance as if he wasn’t _right fucking there,_ Pepper cradled him to her cheek and squished. It felt...nice. Like a, like a _hug._ When was the last time he got one of those?

 

Before she held his tiny useless body at eye level to his stitched on faceplate, and _glared. “_ Anthony Edward Stark, if you are in there,” punctuated by a poke to his arc reactor (also stitched on) “you are in for a world of trouble.”

 

Well. He ached to reply, “Aren’t I already?” But he had no mouth. So he couldn’t. This day sucked.

 

* * *

 

It took two days to convince half the team that this wasn’t all an elaborate joke.

 

“All readings conclude, Mr. Barton, that Master Stark has somehow been transformed into what you see before you.”

 

“Ha!” Clint gave Tony a shake. Fuck you too, Barton. “As if.”

 

“I must warn you, if you do not unhand Sir at once, I will shoot at will.”

 

That had him stepping back, hands raised, when he detected a wry tone in the AI’s voice.

Even Tony had a hard time deciding whether JARVIS was joking or not.

 

There was no time to further ponder the issue, because Pepper chose that moment to stride in, a heckled looking Stephen Strange in tow behind her. Impressive facial hair, impressive career. And definitely an impressive ego, once upon a time.

 

That insolent cape of his raised a collar to wave in their direction. Stephen only blinked.

 

They collectively made their way to the communal floor, and sat him down on the coffee table. Sat was a generous term; after putting him down the plush had promptly plopped onto its side. Rude.

 

From there, Tony could see his reflection in the glass. Not a bad specimen, even if he wasn’t entirely symmetrical. Clint played server, bringing the team (and when had they got there?) drinks before perching on an armchair. Weirdo.

 

As soon as everyone had settled down, it was all business. Doctor Cheekbones grilled them for everything he could get, and began to mutter, opening portals at random to pull this book or that scroll out to flip through before tossing back in again.

 

Around fifteen minutes in a bald man pokes his head through one of them and shouts at him about “handling the ancient texts properly, damn it,” before popping out, muttering of sorcerers and Beyonce.

 

Tony can’t see how long it’s been, other than the sun slanting lower and lower off the reflective surface of the table. Pepper conjures up a Starkpad somehow, flicking through emails with blistering efficiency. Cap pulls out a sketchbook. Bruce wanders off with his tea, and Clint falls asleep. Who knows what Natashalie’s doing.

 

Right as Tony begins to doze, or the plush version of it, the wizard snaps his fingers. The texts are flung decisively away, punctuated by an angry shout in the distance. “Stephen, I swear to god-”

 

“Okay, here it is.” He says, ignoring the shouts. Everyone left snaps to attention, save Cllnt, who snorts awake. At some point Tony had made it to Pepper’s lap. Nice.

 

He gives them as much of an explanation he can, citing the causes, effects, and finally, _finally,_ the reversal.

“-t’ll take a week, at most, but that’s just because the caster was an amateur, thank god. I don’t know how much of his consciousness he retains, so it’s a tossup between full on screaming inside that body of his, or just a plush. Either way, try not to sit on him.” Damn right they’d not.

 

“However, I can do something so that he can function.” At his question, the group gives silent nods. Clint shakes his head no. Fuck him.

 

“Right. You may want to step back.” Step back? What was he going to do?

 

He’s given an answer by Strange’s sparking fingertips, blazing shapes in the air. More magic? Fuck no. Nononono-

And then he hits him.

 

When his vision returns, Tony gives his head a shake- and it actually does. Shake that is.

 

“Testing, testing, one two three.” He sounds as he does when speaking in the suit, modulated and robotic. In this form, it’s not as loud, and a little tinny. Eh, beggars can’t be choosers.

 

Dimly he sees everyone draw back a bit. What? Voodoo Iron Man too much for you?

 

He tries flying. No? Still polyster, Sigh.

 

“If you’ll allow me…”

 

Right as he’s about to voice his protests to further degradation, he’s hit again, and he sputters, rising in the air to make his indignant escape. Rising- wait. Flight! Sweet, sweet freedom. He spins an arc around the room, smacking the back of everyone’s head, save the two women, and laughs at their noises of surprise and offence. He likes his limbs where they are, thank you.

 

He touches down on Pepper’s shoulder, and wow, isn’t that huge. “So, a week, right?”

 

“At most.”

 

“Thank you for your services, Doctor Strange,” Pepper says warmly. The man gives a nod, and with a sweep of his cloak (who nods as well), he’s gone.

 

“So.” The archer pipes up from where he’s sprawled across Natashalie’s lap.

“Do you have all your...facilities?”

 

Tony repulsor blasts him in the foot.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How'd I do?


End file.
